Socrates smiled at her with his eyes.
"You look nothing like your sculpturings," Sierra blurted out.
Socrates laughed and nodded.
"Could you tell us, again, what you told me about the visitor," Alcibiades prompted. He was neither laughing nor smiling.
Now Socrates smiled benignly. "I do not believe he will be coming."
"Not tonight?" Sierra asked. "He has been in contact with you?"
"Not any night," Socrates replied.
"And why not?" Alcibiades prompted, again.
"Because I created him--"
"What?" Sierra asked.
"I dislike writing, I find it abusive of the truth" Socrates said. "But I am not a perfect being. I have my vices. I have a wife. I like my wine. I have the implements of writing, and sometimes I cannot help myself, and I use them."
Sierra was speechless. "You did a good job of concealing that last vice," she finally said.
"Thank you," Socrates replied. "Shall I show you its results?"
"Yes, please do," Sierra said.
Socrates had already turned around and walked into his room. He leaned over something in the corner. He returned with a papyrus manuscript, and placed it in Alcibiades' hand.
Alcibiades brought it close to his face. He sniffed. "Newly written." He began to read: "Socrates. What time is it? Visitor. The dawn broke a little while ago..."
Sierra pressed her face into reading range. What Alcibiades was reading aloud was indeed on the papyrus.
"I am afraid I have written many of these," Socrates interrupted. "My student Plato has most of them. I am going to die very soon, so I suppose there is no gain in concealing my writing now."
"Many copies of this one dialog, or many dialogs?" Sierra asked.
Socrates looked at her, appreciatively. "Many dialogs."
"Why did you write this one?" Alcibiades asked, unhappily.
Socrates looked at him. "You have lost some of your springtime, my dearest friend. It grieves me to see that. But, to answer your question, I wrote this to see what impact it would have. To see what might happen if those words survived my death. I believe Thales called such activities 'experiments'..."
Alcibiades shook his head.
"And apparently it has already worked," Socrates continued. "It has saved your life," he said to Alcibiades, "has it not?"
"It can save yours, too, if you let it," Sierra said.
Socrates smiled, sadly. "I do not think so."
"But more than the two of us in this room with you have read your dialog," Sierra said. "Did you know that one of them, an inventor, built machines that can save you--"
"Heron? We have already met and conversed, more than once," Socrates said.
"Yes, of course," Sierra said, suddenly realizing what she had missed. "Heron must have been the source of your information about our future. About the vehicles that ply time like a sea, about the farmers who raise crops with human faces."
Socrates nodded. "She has a muse of poetry whispering in her ear," he said to Alcibiades.
"But Heron can still save you," Sierra continued. "We can still substitute a double for you. It should be arriving here soon, if it has not already. Let your double take the hemlock!"
"No," Socrates said, simply.
"Why are you so stubborn?" Sierra said.
Socrates chuckled. "You would have made a good visitor in my dialog."
"Heron may intend to kill us," Alcibiades said darkly. "Not you," he said to Socrates. "Us." He gestured to Sierra and himself.
"It is not safe for anyone here," Sierra added.
"Then you should go, both of you, if what you are telling me about Heron is true," Socrates said. "There is no need for you to die on my behalf."
"My men are watching outside, beyond the view of the guards," Alcibiades said. "They can help us."
"No," Socrates repeated. "You go. There is no--"
"Would it disturb you to know that, in the future, dialogs you composed will be attributed to Plato?" Sierra asked him. She had no particular knowledge of Socrates' vanity. All Sierra knew is that she would have been bothered by someone else receiving credit for her work. Was that a modern attitude, a twenty-first century conceit? She recalled that Benjamin Jowett had written in the nineteenth century that people cared too much about credit -- was he perhaps referring to Socrates? It couldn't hurt to try this tack with him. "If you did not take the hemlock, you at least would have some time to correct that misimpression."
"Why would that misimpression be something I would care to correct?" Socrates replied. "I neither own nor even created my ideas. Surely, they already existed, and my only contribution was to become aware of them, and perhaps coax them into a more public arena."
Sierra smiled, with no pleasure. "And is that also an idea that already existed? In my world, the pre-existence of ideas is a theory attributed to Plato."
Socrates laughed, again. Sierra thought that might have been the most appealing part of the man. "It seems I taught my student very well," Socrates said.
"Is not life better than death?" Sierra tried again with Socrates. "Life is hope, change, the capacity to improve. Death is unchanging, unresponsive. You said -- or Plato had you say -- in one of your dialogs that writing is no good, because it gives but one unvarying answer to all questions, only that which has already been written. Can you not see that death is even worse? It is not only a scroll, it is a scroll shut tight, forever."
"If I were younger," Socrates said, "I would be glad that a poetess such as you was alive and open--"
A sound from the outside intruded.
Alcibiades signaled Sierra to go into the room with Socrates. But she brought Socrates into the room, and joined Alcibiades in the hall.
"It does not sound like fighting," Alcibiades mouthed to her.
Two of the guards walked into the house, weapons drawn. A third man entered, with no visible weapon.
"Hold them. Do not hurt them," Heron told the guards.
* * *
Alcibiades acceded. "There is no advantage in being slaughtered here like oxen," he said to Sierra, quietly. "We will find another moment."
Sierra nodded to Heron and the guards, one of whom put a heavy, restraining hand on her shoulder. "What do you intend to do with us?" she asked Heron.
"I take no pleasure in exercising force," Heron responded. "It is an ugly, last resort. I employ it now, to control you, so I can complete my work with Socrates. Once I have accomplished my task, you will be free to go, to the ends of the world if you like." He regarded Alcibiades. "Where is Socrates?"
Alcibiades did not answer.
"Never mind," Heron said. "He is no doubt in one of these rooms. I do not need you to guide me." He gestured to the guards. "Take these two along." He looked at Alcibiades and Sierra. "Your presence could be helpful when I speak with Socrates."
"What happened to your men?" Sierra asked Alcibiades, as quietly as possible, in English, so the guards presumably would not understand. She had no idea how much English he had been able to pick up from her device in her absence.
"Do not know," Alcibiades whispered, also in English. "Must be out there, still, somewhere. I think Heron came alone, or with not many men, so my men did not see."
"The guards who let us inside must have been Heron's men," Sierra said. For some reason, knowing it was Heron's mercenaries looking at her naked body made her angry.
Alcibiades nodded.
* * *
Heron and his two guards escorted Sierra and Alcibiades into the room that held Socrates.
Socrates gave a crinkly smile. "I am becoming more popular with every hour that approaches my death."
"You are not going to die here," Heron said. "Did I not make that clear to you the last time we talked?"
"He wrote the dialog," Sierra said to Heron, about Socrates. "It was an experiment to see what impact his writing could have -- you like being his tool in an experiment?"
"I do not care who wrot
e that dialog," Heron replied. "It set me on a course. I control its destiny now -- I made it real."
"We were just conversing, before you came, about the parentage of ideas, and how that does not matter," Socrates observed.
Sierra muttered and shook her head.
"But though I am not in control of my ideas, and do not want to be, I am in control of whether I die, at least somewhat," Socrates continued. "I chose not to leave with Crito. And I choose not to leave with you."
"You are wrong," Heron said. "You have no choice." He looked at Alcibiades, then at Sierra. He signaled one of the guards and produced a small weapon.
The guard wheeled on Sierra. She struggled. He punched her just above her stomach, knocking the air out of her. She slumped, shaking, against his arm.
Alcibiades was moving--
But was stopped at the point of a knife -- the second guard's -- against his neck.
"I would instruct him to use it, believe me, though it would not make me happy," Heron said to Alcibiades. "It would be easy to get your dead body into a chair, and on its way to the future. It would cause no change in history."
Socrates sighed. "What is the goal of all of this violence?"
"Are you so intent on dying that you would see these two die first, right in front of you?" Heron asked. "Whom shall I start with?" Heron looked at Sierra's guard.
Socrates grunted. "It seems the future may be more barbaric than the present, at least as far as you are concerned. Maybe those who believe the golden age is behind us are right."
"You are the golden age. Why end it this night when there is no need? Who knows what ideas you can yet bring into the world." Heron looked at Socrates--
"We, too, want precisely that," Alcibiades began-- then seized the opportunity. He elbowed his guard and charged Heron. The inventor moved to avoid Alcibiades, but Socrates, with hands now clasped, smashed down hard on Heron's wrist. His weapon went flying--
Alcibiades now wheeled on the guard who was at his back, and kneed him savagely in the groin. The attack met some protective covering, and was not completely successful. But Alcibiades went for the long knife, and he and the guard rolled on the ground--
Sierra's captor had thrown her to the ground. It did no real damage. She was beginning to recover her breath anyway--
Her guard rushed Socrates and Heron, wriggling against the wall. The guard hesitated. He dared not hurt either man--
Alcibiades came out on top of his guard, with the knife in his hand. He drove it sharply into the guard's throat. Then he leapt to his feet, moved quickly, and plunged the knife into the other guard's neck before he knew what was happening.
Alcibiades loomed over Heron. "Unlike your guard, I have no reservation about severing your chin from your throat."
Socrates rose slowly. He looked at Alcibiades and then around the room. "What does that device do?" He gestured with his head towards Heron's little laser-gun, which had skidded across the floor in the struggle.
Sierra, on her feet now, scooped up the gun. She looked at Socrates and smiled. "Seventy-year-old philosophers are apparently in better physical condition in your time than in mine."
"Alcibiades and I were hoplites -- soldiers -- in the wars," Socrates replied. "This is not the first time we have come to each other's aid. He saved my life at Potidaea, and I saved his at Delium."
* * *
Alcibiades searched Heron for further weapons. Finding none, he shoved him to the corner of the floor and the wall. "We want the same thing as you -- we want Socrates to live. Why are we fighting?"
Heron just smiled.
Alcibiades glared at him. "Maybe I should put a knife through you, right now."
Socrates looked sadly at Alcibiades. "You take too much joy in death."
Alcibiades looked at his mentor. "Let us talk about life, then. Your life, and why--"
"I told you--" Socrates began.
"I know," Alcibiades said. "But if you stay here, and wait for the ship from Delos, and drink the hemlock, all of us may die, too, as a result. Heron has many men at his command. They will no doubt be here soon, with your duplicate body. Hemlock is an unkind poison. But some means of torture can be even more unkind ... You know more about me and the way I think than do most other men. If you are here when Heron's men arrive, you might provide them with information that could be our undoing. Is that what you wish?"
"No, that is not my wish," Socrates said, gravely.
"Then go with her -- right now. She will take you somewhere ... I do not know where. She probably does not know where, right now... That is good."
Socrates and Sierra both protested, for different reasons.
"I will find you, you will find me, later," Alcibiades said to Sierra. "The important goal now is bringing Socrates to a safe place--"
"You can come with us," she said.
"No," Alcibiades said, looking sideways at Heron. "I cannot leave Athens and my men to him, and whichever of his plans and mercenaries are already in motion--"
Socrates breathed in sharply ... and nodded.
Alcibiades exhaled. "Go, then. Now. Before the others arrive."
Sierra looked at Heron.
"He is still smiling," she whispered hoarsely, into Alcibiades' ear. "This may be just what he wants."
Alcibiades pulled her further away from Heron. Both kept their eyes on him. "That does not matter," he whispered into her ear, "as long as it is what we want."
Alcibiades looked at Socrates.
"We may not see each other again," Alcibiades said to his mentor, voice choked. "A pity. There is so much else in the universe to discuss." He kissed Sierra softly on the corner of her mouth. Then spoke to her loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Do not go anywhere near Alexandria."
Tears filled Sierra's eyes.
Heron's smile widened. But at that moment, no one saw it.
"Go," Alcibiades said to Sierra and Socrates. "Please."
The two nodded, and walked out the door.
Chapter Ten
[Athens, 399 BC]
Socrates stepped outside the little house that had been his prison. Sierra was at his side.
Socrates looked at the night. "I see no sign of Heron's men."
"That does not mean they will not be here in a few minutes," Sierra replied.
"I confess that I would very much like to see what my double looks like," Socrates said.
"Alcibiades is right to be concerned that all of us, not only you, could die if you stay to receive such knowledge."
"Yes," Socrates conceded. "Then let us leave now. Our destination is a port, I assume, from which we can travel afar?"
"It is a house much like the one behind us," Sierra replied, "except this one has magical chairs -- such as the gods of Olympus would adopt as their own."
"I do not believe in magic," Socrates said.
"I know," Sierra said. "Magic is not really the process that makes these chairs move. Magic is a metaphor to describe a technology so advanced that it seems like magic to all who seek to fathom what it does."
"Including you?" Socrates asked.
Sierra nodded.
"But not Heron," Socrates said.
"Probably not," Sierra replied.
* * *
The walk to the house with the chairs was swift and uneventful.
"I presume we do not need to worry that Heron is lying in wait for us here," Socrates remarked.
Sierra regarded Socrates--
"Oh yes, I see my error," Socrates said. "If one can travel through time, then an older version of the Heron we left back at the prison could come here, to this house in front of us..."
"Yes, a younger version, too," Sierra said. "Though the younger version would presumably mean us no harm--"
"Because..."
"He would want--
"Yes, he would want you alive, so that you could play your part in making these recent events occur," Socrates finished the sentence. "Yes. I can see that now."
"Logic hide
s around corners when you travel through time," Sierra said.
Socrates nodded. "And, of course, the only way an older version of Heron could now appear before us would be if he survives whatever will soon happen now, in the prison..."
"Exactly," Sierra said. "You know, it is extraordinary, being able to talk to you like this, seeing you grapple with difficult concepts, how you come to an understanding and formulate your thoughts. All that I otherwise know of you is from dialogs, which represent careful polishings of your thoughts, and have been passed down to my world, frozen, for thousands of years..."
"This is why I dislike the written word," Socrates replied, "even though, in the interest of learning more about its impact, I have given in to its temptations, as I told you."
Sierra nodded, and cautiously stopped a few feet away from the house with the chairs. She put a restraining arm on Socrates. It was difficult to see in the dark, but as far as she could tell, there was no one in front of the house, or inside, either, unless asleep with all lights extinguished.
"It appears safe for us to enter," she said.
* * *
Four chairs were in the house. Sierra was beyond trying to determine their intended passengers. She knew only that she and Socrates had to use two of the chairs quickly. With any luck, Alcibiades would be arriving here soon, as well. She would set his chair to travel to the same time as she and Socrates. She had learned that programming.
For an instant, she thought that perhaps she should send Socrates on his way in one of these chairs, while she ran back to the prison to help Alcibiades.... No, Socrates would be clueless in any time not close to this present.
"These are our conveyances to the future?" Socrates asked. "They look ... small." Then he laughed. "Of course, I have no standards for evaluating vehicles that travel through time."
Nor do I, really, Sierra thought. "I must examine them." She scrutinized the controls for each of the four chairs. Socrates stared, mouth open.
"Sometimes you can set the destination in time on these chairs," Sierra said, "so they arrive at the time you select. Not on these."
"Why not?" Socrates asked.
"Likely because Heron set them all to arrive at the time he wanted," Sierra replied.
The Plot to Save Socrates (Sierra Waters Book 1) Page 24
